


As clear as an unmudded lake

by alicambs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre slashy, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:12:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicambs/pseuds/alicambs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: John is conducive to better thinking; Sherlock has even done the experiments to prove that this is so. Unfortunately, his notes on the subject somehow made its way into the hands of Moriarty and Mycroft... Now Sherlock and John have to deal with not one, but two, powerful men who keep kidnapping John off the street or randomly breaking into his room to improve their thought processes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As clear as an unmudded lake

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for an old prompt (April 2011). I suddenly was inspired and this is the end product.
> 
> Much thanks and hugs to daughter for stepping in again and checking it over.

“Do have a cake, Dr Watson,” Mycroft says affably. “These are one of my all time favourites.”

John sighs and takes one certain that they will beyond delicious, a bit like the tea he's been served in a delicate china tea cup. He takes a bite and sups his tea in silence, determined to enjoy one thing at least about the circumstances he is in. Mycroft smiles and John's certain he knows exactly what he is thinking but, immune to the Holmes' seeming omniscience, he refuses to allow it to spoil his pleasure.

“Is Sherlock behaving himself?” Mycroft asks after a few minutes of silence.

John shrugs, does Sherlock ever behave himself. “He's fine,” he replies non-committally.

“Excellent,” Mycroft says and offers the cake stand again. 

John considers the cakes thoughtfully before shaking his head and putting down his tea cup. “Was there anything specific you wanted?” he asks bluntly. 

Mycroft smiles benignly. “I do worry about the pair of you.”

“We get by,” John says carefully. “Could do without Moriarty's tricks and games though.”

Mycroft nods and takes a sip of his tea. “Nasty business,” he agree suavely. “However, even without Mr Moriarty's influence Sherlock can be such a trial. I find it some relief that he has found you, someone he considers a friend who he actually listens to and respects their opinion.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” John says pragmatically. He doesn't think Sherlock respects anyone's opinion but his own.

“I must disagree with you,” Mycroft says politely. “I do understand him, you are rather a useful person to talk to. I've often thought it would be good to discuss our strategy in Afghanistan with you.”

John blinks in surprise. “I'd have though you had enough advisers and Generals at your finger tips to keep you well up to date with strategy.”

“You've been a man on the ground as it were, you'd know better than they would the day to day aspects of the war.”

“I was a medical officer, a doctor, more involved in dealing with the wounded than fighting the Taliban,” John says. 

“Yet you were injured in action,” Mycroft responds, taking another cake.

John says nothing and watches Mycroft's expression as he eats. The man isn't fat, whatever Sherlock implies, but it is clear to see that he has a sweet tooth. Mycroft delicately clears up the last piece of cake and sets down his teacup.

“And from what I have discovered, your superiors thought highly of both your clinical skills and your ability to remain calm under pressure,” he continues as if there has been no gap in the conversation.

“That's good to know,” John says a mite uncomfortably. He's not too sure he appreciates Mycroft taking an interest in his army career.

“You live and work with my brother, of course I'm going to find out about you.”

John resists the temptation to roll his eyes and just shrugs his shoulders. Mycroft can take the gesture to mean what he wants.

“As to Afghanistan, it's a very difficult situation.”

John wants to say that this is stating the obvious, but Mycroft is on a roll.

“We have a number of strategies suggested to us, but I can't help but feel that they are missing the point in some manner. What did you think of the Afghanis, Dr Watson?”

“I had too little contact to say,” John replies. “But if you want a summary, a proud, warlike, tribal people who generally resent our intervention into their country and their way of life. They may dislike the Taliban, but the Taliban are at least familiar.”

“Do you think we are doing any good there?” Mycroft asks as he refills his tea cup and gestures towards John's cup.

John holds his cup and saucer out and considers the question thoughtfully. “In the beginning maybe, but...” He falls silent and studies his cup before slowly saying, “I saw many friends and colleagues killed or badly injured because of this war, Mycroft. The last thing I want to suggest is that their sacrifices were totally in vain.” He takes a sip of tea to help calm his thoughts. 

“That would be singularly idiotic,” Mycroft says.

John blinks. “Are you suggesting...” he breaks off and shakes his head. “No one could be that stupid,” he murmurs to himself.

“I think you would be surprised by how narrowly focused people can be when they are swayed by public opinion,” Mycroft replies.

John nods quietly to himself and finishes his tea. They sit in silence for a few minutes, John mulling over the conversation while Mycroft continues to sip his tea and look his normal unflappable self. The silence is interrupted by the chime of John's phone.

“Please do answer my brother,” Mycroft says placidly. 

John shakes his head and glances at his phone. The text, from Sherlock of course, requests that he purchase string, rubber bands and plasters. John muffles a sigh and replaces his phone in his pocket. “Was there anything further you wanted to discuss?” he asks Mycroft. His phone chimes again, milk is added to the list.

Mycroft gives what John suspects is a strained smile but shakes his head. “I've instructed the driver to drop you off at the nearest Tesco, unless you wish to be dropped off elsewhere?”

John stands. “Tesco will be fine, thank you.” He heads to the car and back to his interrupted day.

“Your brother kidnapped me again,” he informs Sherlock as he deposits the shopping in the kitchen.

Sherlock, who is watching a wriggling petri dish of maggots thoughtfully, sniffs. “What did he want?”

“I'm not entirely sure,”John says, “but the tea was good.” He eyes the maggots with some concern but says nothing, knowing Sherlock he won't want to hear any explanation offered. “Any reason why we need more plasters?”

“I used up the last box,” Sherlock says, somewhat unhelpfully.

“Right,” John says, and leaves it heading for the living room, his lap top and some time on his blog. By the time he's got himself settled Lestrade has rung and Sherlock's calling for him to hurry. John grumbles out loud as Sherlock almost hauls him into his coat, but inside he's content as the minor irritations and uncertainty of the day are shrugged off in the excitement of the chase.

The case lasts three days and John is exhausted. He heads for bed and is asleep almost immediately. He wakes suddenly, aware that he is not alone.

“I don't think much of the décor, Johnny.” A voice says cheerfully.

“What....?” John mutters, about to blast Sherlock for waking him when he recognises the accent and sits bolt upright in bed reaching for the drawer of his bedside cabinet only to find it already open and the gun missing.

“Nor your hiding place, a bit obvious if you don't mind me pointing out.” The figure perched on the end of his bed waves his hand and even in the gloom John can make out the gun.

“Sherlock...?”

“Sleeping like a baby,” comes the cheerful reply. 

John blinks. “Then what are you doing in my room?” he asks, hoping like hell he is still dreaming.

“Not admiring the décor,” is the unhelpful response as torch light flickers around the walls and ceiling. “I'd change the curtains for a start, so boring and dated and paint the wall with something a little more exciting.”

“Did you break in my room to give me advice on decorating?” John asks incredulously.

Moriarty giggles pointing the torch beam directly in his face. John blinks and covers his eyes blinking red spots away. “It certainly wouldn't go amiss, but that wasn't the primary reason,” Moriarty says moving the torch away. 

“Right!” John says slowly, still trying to get his head around the fact that Jim Moriarty is in his bedroom and has his gun. “Care to explain just why you're here then?”

“I have this problem, well when I say this problem it's one of many, not that I couldn't just shoot my way out of it, but it's bad for business you know, Johnny.”

“No I don't,” John says firmly. “I was an Army doctor, I know nothing about business.”

“But you know a thing or two about shooting people don't you?”

John remains silent, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness again.

“Messy business shooting people, bodies to dispose of, people to pay off, police to avoid,” Moriarty carries on cheerfully. “Poison would be easier perhaps. A good toxicologist wouldn't come amiss, might need to consider that.”

John blinks and shakes his head. “I don't know any toxicologists,” he says somewhat mendaciously. “Certainly none that would ever work with you.”

“Everyone has their price,” Moriarty says nonchalantly. He sidles up the bed towards John and whispers in his ear, “Even you, Johnny.”

John tries not to flinch as Moriarty strokes the gun along his neck. “What do you want?” he ask quietly.

Moriarty sniggers. “Many things, Johnny, many things.” He slides up against the wall and leans back crossing his legs over John's. “Do get comfortable my dear, I want to tell you a story.”

“A story?” John repeats, blinking hard. “What story?” 

“Are you sitting comfortable, Johnny?” Moriarty asks and shines the torch under his chin giving a slow wink.

John sighs, pulls his pillow up against his back and tries unsuccessfully to dislodge Moriarty's legs. If he has to listen he might as well make himself comfortable. “Yes,” he says. 

“Good, then I’ll begin. Once upon a time in a city called London there lived a Consulting Criminal. He had his competitors but he was the best and biggest and all who knew him were amazed at his brilliance. People came from far and wide to beg him to get rid of their problems or get them the object of their desire.”

“Well that's lovely,” John says tiredly, “But to be honest I've never really cared that much for fairy stories or fables.”

To John's surprise Moriarty laughs and pats John's legs. “We must remedy that,” he says and settles back. “Now where was I, oh yes, setting the scene. So important the setting, Johnny. Now this genius consulting criminal...”

John wants to pinch himself to ensure he's not dreaming but he's hesitant to move unnecessarily with Moriarty almost on top of him armed with his gun. He listens to Moriarty's story, it's primarily a matter of rivalry between two gangs that Moriarty wants stopped. “It's bad for business, Johnny,” Moriarty repeats when John asks why it matters to him, since death and destruction appears to be his stock in trade.

John knows what his role is here, he does it for Sherlock often enough although the subject matter is somewhat different and he's all too conscious that Moriarty is fully capable of carrying out all his threats and suggestions.

He can't stop the yawn that comes out of nowhere and is beyond surprised when Moriarty laughs, pats him on the leg again and slides out of his bed.

“You've been very helpful, Johnny,” he says cheerfully. “Back to your beauty sleep,” and settles the duvet round him. John feels the quick press of lips on his forehead as he slips back into sleep. 

He's downstairs drinking tea the next morning when the fact that Moriarty, of all people, was in his room last night finally registers. The noise of the mug smashing on the floor has Sherlock hovering at the entrance of the kitchen.

“Moriarty. Was. In. My. Bedroom Last. Night!” John says slowly, looking at Sherlock. “Moriarty! He took my gun and sat on my bed and told me a story!”

Sherlock blinks. “What was the story about?”

John stares at the shattered mug for a few seconds. “Moriarty,” he says finally.

“Pull yourself together, John,” Sherlock says firmly. “Moriarty, what did he want?”

John takes a deep breath. “He wanted to talk about himself, his job, things that were a nuisance to him, you know, Life, the Universe and Everything. To be honest, it was a bit like being talked to by you, with threats and impending violent death added!”

“He wanted to talk about himself?” Sherlock repeats slowly. “Tell me exactly what he said to you, John.”

“He was rude about the décor,” John says mildly indignant. 

“Ignore that, what did he say?”

“I told you,” John says patiently. “He wanted to discuss a problem he was having with some rival gangs. I sort of lost interest near the end, too tired. But all he really wanted me to do was to ask questions or make observations.” John stops and thinks for a few seconds. “In fact when I come to think of it he was far less rude that you normally are about my observations.”

“He obviously wished to impress you,” Sherlock says and frowns. “Mycroft kidnapped you just before our case and you said something similar then.”

John grimaces.

Sherlock heads towards his armchair and sits down. “Tea, John, I need to process this.”

John sighs and gets the dust pan and brush out, clearing the remains of the mug up. It's his RAMC mug and he's sorry that it's broken. He refills the kettle, switches it on and leans back against the counter to review last nights conversation while he waits for it to boil. God! Moriarty in his room, John shivers recalling his gun and dashes up the stairs to check on it. It's in his drawer and while he doesn’t want to ever agree with Moriarty, it is in respect a stupid place to leave a gun even if he locks the drawer during the day. He's given up hiding it because Sherlock can be very destructive looking for it on the, admittedly, rare occasions he feels the need to express his frustrations explosively. 

John's blood pressure finally settles as he sips his tea and eats his toast. By the times he's showered, dressed and read the newspaper Moriarty's visit is beginning to feel like a bad dream. He's not working today so he checks the cupboards, writes a list and leaves Sherlock ensconced on the sofa while he heads out to shop. A chance meeting with an old friend leads to a lunch and it's well into the afternoon before he returns, with a few items of shopping, to the flat.

He's putting the items away when Mrs Hudson enters carrying a large canvas bag which she deposits on the kitchen table.

“You didn’t tell me you were decorating,” she says cheerfully. “Not that I'm unhappy or anything, John, but it would be nice to know in case I have to let any painters in.”

“We aren't that I know of, why, has Sherlock mentioned it?” John asks, automatically putting the kettle on.

“A nice young man dropped a few samples off for you to look over,” she says indicating the bag. “He asked you to make a choice and let him know.”

John reaches for the bag and checks the contents. A couple of paint charts, three books of curtain material and a small brochure of carpet samples. “Sherlock?” he calls.

“He went out about an hour ago, dear.”

“Right,” John says. “I'll text him about it.” He taps out a message and sends.

His phones pips and he read the message. “Apparently he's busy so I guess we'll have to wait until he finds time to let us know,” John says, unsurprised.

“I'd like the horrid yellow smiley face sorted.”

“I'll tell him,” John says and grimaces apologetically when his phone rings.

Mrs Hudson waves goodbye and closes the door behind her.

“Hi, can I help you?” John says politely, not recognising the number. 

“Dr Watson?”

“Yes.”

“It's Colin from Paint it Up. Did you get the samples I left your landlady?”

“Yes,” John says, a little puzzled.

“Your friend was quite insistent that I start work tomorrow so could I have your choices please?”

“Did this friend mention his name?” John asks slowly.

There's a rustle of paper from the other end and a few asides to someone else before Colin answers. “James Moriarty. He said it was to be a special treat for you and he looked forward to checking it out very soon.”

John rubs his face and represses a sigh. “Can you give me half an hour? I've just got in and wasn't expecting to have to do this.”

“Okay, sure. If you could ring this number, it's on most of the samples, and ask for me.”

“I'll do that. Thank you,” John says and finishes the call. He stares at the bag of samples in horror and sits down slowly on a kitchen chair.

He's still sitting staring at the samples when Sherlock breezes in fifteen minutes later.

“Mystery solved,” Sherlock says as he takes off his coat and throws himself in the arm chair. “Mycroft got hold of my research. I inadvertently put it up on my website. Deleted it immediately of course, but that means little to Mycroft or Moriarty. I told Mycroft to back off, you're my blogger, my conductor of light, my friend and he's not getting his nasty little claws anywhere near you.”

John blinks and shakes himself. “Research?” he asks. “I have to thank you for this,” he points at the bag of samples indignantly. “because you foolishly put some research about me up on your blog?”

Sherlock gets up and peers in the bag. “Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. 

“What on earth did you say to have both Moriarty and Mycroft deciding they needed to unburden themselves to me?”

Sherlock looks a little shifty. “I proved conclusively that you are conducive to better thinking.”

“Great!” John groans. “Were you ever going to tell me? And come to that why on earth did you need to write it down?”

Sherlock ignores him and gestures to the bag. “You're not going to stop him and your room is a little dull so why not choose what you want?”

“Because it's Moriarty!” John says throwing his hands up in frustration. “The last thing I want to do is to make my room more welcoming for him.”

“But the likelihood if you don't is that he arranges to have you kidnapped and taken to somewhere at his convenience.”

“Well at least he won't be in my bedroom,” John says sharply. 

“John,” Sherlock says patiently. “He is coming here, he is not kidnapping you. Make it work for us.”

John sighs. “This is all your fault, Sherlock. I am not happy about any of this at all.”

“Duly noted. Now decide upon the décor.” Sherlock pulls open the bag and deposits the samples on the table.

“No, no, no, good grief no, no, no, possible, definitely not, no, ok, possible” John says to the curtain samples. 

“That one then,” Sherlock says decisively. “Carpet?”

John gives them all a desultory look before pointing at a deep red. “That one.”

“Certainly won't see the blood stains,” Sherlock says, pulling a reluctant smile from John. “Walls?”

“Some kind of off white colour,” John says dismissively.

“Jasmine white,” Sherlock declares gathering up the samples and putting them back in the bag. “Now who did you have to ring?”

“Colin,” says John, giving up all pretence of ever being in control of the situation. He moves to switch the kettle back on again and ignores Sherlock's conversation with Colin of Paint it Up as he makes himself a cup of tea and heads to the comfort of his armchair.

“Tomorrow at 9.00,” Sherlock says throwing himself in his chair. “He was a little surprised at some of your choices so I may have made a few alterations.”

John grunts, uncaring, and burrows his head in the latest Lancet.

Sherlock bounces up again. “Your lap top, John,” he demands.

John nods his head towards the kitchen table and burrows further in his chair.

Peace reigns for a good hour, punctuated by Sherlock’s mutterings. John becomes absorbed in a couple of interesting articles and he doesn’t register immediately that Sherlock is talking to him rather than at him. 

“Run that past me again,” John demands, peering over the Lancet.

“I said,” Sherlock enunciates slowly, a flicker of irritation on his face. “You won't want to sleep in your room for a couple of nights after it's been painted so I've taken a case that necessitates a few days in the country.”

John lowers the Lancet completely and looks blankly at Sherlock. “I've got work tomorrow.”

“Not any longer,” Sherlock replies and bounces up from the chair. “I thought I'd have to go for a 5 or 6 but it looks at least a 7 and very promising.”

“You taken a case in the country and cancelled my locum work purely so I don't have to sleep in a newly decorated room?” John asks, incredulous.

“I can’t have my conductor of light and blogger put out can I now,” Sherlock says

John grins, his humour restored. “You giant prat,” he says affectionately. “I wouldn't be in this situation if it wasn’t for you, but that's decent of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks briefly pleased before rubbing his hands briskly and heading for his bedroom. “You'll need to pack and check that's there nothing you don't want seen, in your room such as the girly mags under your bed.”

John snorts. “I doubt 'Colin' will have a problem with them.”

“Colin's unlikely to have a problem with them but I doubt he'll get much joy from them,” Sherlock says with a smirk.

John shakes his head. “So you've googled him, checked him out, deduced his sexual preferences and the colour of his underpants no doubt, and decided that he's okay to let into our flat.”

“Of course, now chop, chop John. I need to let Mrs Hudson know, hire a car...”

“Train,” John says feelingly. “You attitude to your fellow drivers is such that I'd rather go by train unless you intend to let me drive?”

“Train it is,” Sherlock says swiftly, and enters his bedroom.

“Control freak,” John shouts, and laughs heading to his (soon to be decorated) bedroom to pack.

They end up in Cambridge staying in a double room at the Travelodge, which while pretty central is something of an eyesore in John's critical view. So much of Cambridge is old and beautiful that he is amazed that such a monstrosity was even given planning permission. Sherlock is indifferent to the building or the fact that they are sharing a King sized bed. John had considered demanding a family room which has a sofa bed, but he knows from experience that Sherlock will use the bed anyway and he doesn’t see why he should have to deal with a, likely uncomfortable, sofa bed. 

The case, which John thinks he'll call the 'The Spread Eagled Punter' when he writes it up, necessitates a lot of running around the colleges which are full of conference attendees, visitors and the occasional post grad, as it's the middle of the summer holidays. Their room, fortunately, is only used for sleeping. John wakes one night to find Sherlock wrapped round him like an octopus and spends five minutes trying to extricate himself in order to go the loo, but generally he falls asleep to Sherlock working at the computer and wakes to Sherlock sat up in bed working at the computer. John occasionally wonders what it says about his relationship with Sherlock that he accepts this as perfectly normal.

The case is solved when Sherlock links the dead man in the punt with a drug cartel...

“A drug cartel! In Cambridge!”

“Don't be so provincial, John.”

… using the summer conferences as a cover to smuggle in supplies. 

John manages to wrangle a punt ride and picnic along the Cam with the added enjoyment of watching Sherlock demonstrate his skills while expounding knowledgeably on the colleges and sights along the river. They picnic in Grantchester meadows and John listens lazily while Sherlock explain the intricacies of the case while munching on Marks and Spencers sandwiches and Chelsea buns from Fitzbillies. The antics of some of the tourists, who obviously don't know how to propel their punts, never mind keep them straight, adds to the enjoyable atmosphere

“What college did you go to,” John asks as they make their way back.

“Trinity.”

“Any particular reason for choosing it?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I made an open application to study the Natural Sciences Tripos and it was the college selected for me. Mycroft had gone to Oxford, which is why I chose Cambridge, so after that I wasn't really bothered.”

“Did you enjoy your time here?” 

“The tuition was adequate and the resources admirable.”

John shakes his head. “I meant the social life, the other students, the wild parties. Did you do any of that?”

Sherlock nods. “Briefly. I drunk, smoked, got high and generally lived the life of Riley for the first two terms then got very, very bored until I managed to wrangle extra time in the labs to do my own research.” 

He stops talking to concentrate on gliding the punt into the moorings and hops off leaving John to gather the picnic debris, thank the young man gathering up the cushions and join him on the bridge over looking the punts.

“Your university antics at Kings College overshadow mine utterly.” Sherlock continues the conversation as if there has been no gap.

“We're talking about your antics,” John says quickly.”Anyway, how do you know what I got up to?”

Sherlock looks at him pityingly. “If you wanted to remain anonymous you'd have done best not to have captained the somewhat notorious Rugby team for two years, John.”

“How the hell..., strike that, of course you'd know.”

“Or been one of the main instigators of the theft of UCL's prized Mascot.”

John laughs. “That was fun, anyway they deserved it after kidnapping Reggie the Lion, it was in defence of our honour.”

“Of course it was,” Sherlock says drily. “Have you seen enough of Cambridge or can we head back to London?”

“I guess so,” John says a little unwillingly. He's enjoyed the break and he's reluctant to return to Baker Street. 

“Mrs Hudson says it looks good and the smell has almost vanished,” Sherlock offers as they walk back to the Travelodge.

“As good as that may be, it still disturbs me that we've gone along with letting Moriarty redecorate my bedroom and not looked at increasing the security around the flat and stopping him getting in at all,” John grumbles. 

“Mycroft took that aspect on,” Sherlock says dismissively. 

“Wonderful, so we'll see if it makes any difference then shall we?” John says, somewhat placated by this information. 

They get a taxi to the station and are back home within two hours. John heads for his bedroom and is standing, arms folded viewing the place with an air of disgruntlement as Sherlock strolls up and leans forward resting his chin on John's shoulder.

“Oy!” John says. “Your chin's sharp.”

“I'm getting a John's eye view,” Sherlock says. He peers critically at the curtains.

“I distinctly recall you saying you'd made a few alterations not that you'd rejected everything I said and did just what you fancy,” John mutters. “Nor do I remember agreeing to a new duvet cover or having scatter cushions on the bed. I'll have to toss the bloody lot on the floor every time I want to sleep.”

“I like it,” Sherlock pronounces. “The cushions will come in useful when I need to talk to you and you won't get out of bed.”

“The whole idea of refusing to engage with you is that you get the hint and bugger off and let me sleep,” John says sorrowfully. “Unlike you, I regularly need a good eight hours sleep to be able to function.”

“It's easier when we share a bed,” Sherlock says finally lifting his chin off John's shoulders. “You could always move downstairs.”

John doesn’t move for a second as he analyses what Sherlock has just said. He's not offering to swap rooms, which while a possibility is not one John wants to follow up as he likes his room on the second floor away from the living area. Sherlock is offering to share a room, or share a bed more likely. “Let me get this clear,” John says slowly. “You would like me to sleep downstairs in your bed... because that way I'm always on tap to be talked at.”

“Talked with,” Sherlock corrects.

“Talked at,” John repeats firmly. “Sherlock, you do know that I choose to live here, that I choose to join you in your work because you say you find it better when I'm with you. That I put you before my own work, and my girlfriends come to that.”

“Of course I know that,” Sherlock says impatiently.

“Right. Then why on earth am I getting the distinct impression that you are jealous of the attention Moriarty and Mycroft have given me, because I certainly haven’t asked for any of it!”

“You're being ridiculous,” Sherlock says, and flounces off.

John laughs and turns back to view his bedroom again. It's actually not too bad, not that he'll be telling Sherlock that any time soon.

John manages two uninterrupted nights in his newly decorated bedroom before Moriarty appears, like an unwelcome guest at a party.

“Much better,” Moriarty declares after switching on John's bedside lamp and waking him. “Far more cheerful and welcoming.”

John tries to burrow down into the duvet and avoid the light.

“None of that, Johnny boy. Come out where I can see your delightful little face.”

John grunts.

“Dear, dear, will I have to get into bed with you and tickle you awake?” Moriarty asks, and laughs as John suddenly sits bolt upright. 

“How the hell did you get in?” John asks grumpily.

“Mycroft Holmes' security is not as water tight as he might like to believe,” Moriarty says smugly.

“I'll let him know,” John says.

“Don't worry, he'll hear it when he receives the transcript in the morning.”

“For fuck's sake,” John says feelingly. “Does nobody in this sodding place understand the concept of privacy!”

“Sexy obviously doesn't. Tell me Johnny, do you normally share a bed with your male friends.”

“No, why do you ask?”

“Well, my spies tell me that you and Sexy shared a double bed in Cambridge for three nights.”

“King sized,” John says automatically. 

“That makes all the difference I agree,” Moriarty says solemnly.

John smothers a giggle as the sheer bizarreness of the whole situation hits him. Here he is sitting in bed with Moriarty perched on the edge, Sherlock downstairs and one of Mycroft's minions listening in to them arguing about the size of the bed he shared with Sherlock.

“It's that eight inches of separation.”

John's sense of humour gets the better of him and he bursts out giggling uncontrollably. He's aware of Moriarty smiling at him in amusement but it's just too funny for him to care. It takes him a couple of minutes to get himself under control by which time Moriarty has settled down next to him and made himself comfortable with all the cushions John has thrown onto the armchair.

“I have got to make you laugh again, Johnny boy,” Moriarty says and pats John's knee. “Now, what were we talking about, oh yes, you and Sherlock sleeping together.”

“Sharing a bed,” John corrects him. “Sleeping together implies we are having sex.”

“And are you?” Moriarty enquires with interest. 

“No!” John says crossly. “Don't you start as well.”

“Darling Johnny, does it never cross your delightful little mind that the reason people assume you and Sexy are a couple is because you and Sexy act like a couple?”

John is silent for a few seconds. “I'd not really thought about it like that,” he says slowly. “But in mitigation I'd say that Sherlock is unique and, well he's just special.”

“Sexy is very special,” Moriarty agrees, “but then again, in your own small way, so are you, Johnny boy.”

“Um, thanks?” John offers.

“And should you feel the need to experiment with your sexuality I'd be more than happy to help.”

“I have no idea what to say to that,” John says after a good few seconds of shocked silence.

“Thank you, Jim, what a lovely idea?”

“Right, I appreciate the offer, but no thank you.”

“Your loss, darling, but the offer remains open,” Moriarty says and grins.

“Did you come to nose into Sherlock and my private life or was there something else you wanted?” John says pointedly.

“Spoil sport,” Moriarty says cheerfully. “So, are you sitting comfortably, Johnny...?”

***

“He was here again last night,” John says as he descends the stairs the next morning and heads to the kitchen to put on the kettle. “He says your brother has my bedroom bugged, so we need to... oh, hello Mycroft.”

“Sherlock had to go out,” Mycroft says smoothly. 

“And of course you had nothing to do with the sudden urgency of his departure,” John says pleasantly. “Tea?”

“Yes please.”

“So can I assume that the reason for your visit is that you have read the transcript?” John asks as he move around the kitchen.

“I have read up to the point where Moriarty propositions you but after that we get white noise,” Mycroft corrects. 

“I think it was less a proposition and more a laugh at my expense,” John says. “So, anti surveillance, I guess that was only to be expected.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says majestically. 

“Then I would like the bugging removed immediately,” John says firmly as he brings two cups out and hands one to Mycroft.

“Since Moriarty is aware of it, it is now of no use,” Mycroft agrees.

“Well he was always going to be wasn’t he,” John says thoughtfully. “I wasn't going to keep quiet about his visits and with his decorating scheme he rather showed his hand. It's almost as if he wanted it to happen.”

“You're on fine form this morning, John,” Mycroft says and raises his cup at him

John eyes him suspiciously but lets the subject drop. 

“Did he say anything of any import?” Mycroft inquires.

John shrugs. “He didn't talk about any plans he had for anything. He talked more about his operation and who he could trust. I guess you could say we talked about personalties and our experiences with certain types. It was quite interesting actually seeing how he viewed people, but nothing that could be of any benefit to you, I don't think.”

“I see.”

“So was there anything else I could help you with?”

You've heard of the Pembington affair from Sherlock I assume?'

“Yes.”

“Well there was one aspect of the whole business that neither Sherlock nor I could quite ascertain and it's become pertinent again,” Mycroft begins.

***

“I'm contemplating retraining to become a Psychiatrist,” John informs Sherlock as he blows into the room like a Whirling Dervish 

“Too inactive, you'd get bored,” Sherlock says, throwing himself into his chair.

“Pays well,” John counters.

“There's that,” Sherlock agrees.

They sit quietly for a few minutes when Sherlock says. “I'm glad you think I’m special, John”

“I'm rather horrified that everyone appears to have listened in last night, but you are welcome, Sherlock,” John says affectionately.

Sherlock nodes. “And I would like to point out that my bed is a Super King. I don't snore, as you know, and while I'm happy to share a bed I'm definitely not averse to sleeping with you in the biblical sense.”

John opens his mouth and closes it abruptly and swallowing. “Not averse to?” He echoes somewhat wildly.

“Not opposed to,” Sherlock qualifies.

“That's nice to know,” John says weakly.

“Good!” Sherlock says rising from his chair and heading towards the kitchen. “I need to check the maggots, they've been a good ten days in the alcoholic solution and should be ready. Oh, and John, I'm not redecorating for you.”

“Right,” John says pathetically. He was sure he had a handle on life when he came downstairs this morning but he's beginning to think that the universe has it in for him. His phone bleeps and he reaches for it automatically.

 _Congratulations, am available for advice should you require it. M_ he reads. 

His phone beeps again and he blinks as he reads. _Offer still open, kissy kissy. J_

“I'm going back to bed,” he calls to Sherlock as he stands unsteadily. “Wake me when the universe rights itself.”

“Busy,” Sherlock replies.

John totters off to bed certain of one thing. If he ever does decide to throw caution to the wind and take Sherlock up on his offer, very little will change because in this case Moriarty's correct. He and Sherlock do act like a married couple and deep down he doesn’t mind at all. 

 

Further info on:  


[Reggie the Lion](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King%27s_College_London_Students%27_Union#Mascot)

[Trinity College, Cambridge](http://www.paultownend.com/photos/uk/cambridge2005/cambridge4.jpg)

[How to punt](http://vimeo.com/70861738)

Make up your own mind in regards to [Cambridge Central Travellodge](http://www.travelodge.co.uk/hotels/255/Cambridge-Central-hotel)


End file.
